The Girl in the Picture Page 24

  Frances opened the front door to let Violet out.

  ‘Heavens,’ she said. ‘It is dark. I had not realized it was so late.’

  ‘That is because you do not stop talking,’ Violet teased.

  They laughed again, then Frances gasped as a figure loomed out of the darkness.

  ‘Well, this is nice,’ a voice said.

  Frances’s blood ran cold. Beside her, she felt Violet freeze.

  Edwin.

  He swayed up the garden path with his overnight bag in his hand, and dropped it at Frances’s feet. ‘What is she doing here?’ he hissed in her face.

  Frances recoiled from the smell of whisky on his breath. ‘Miss Hargreaves just called by,’ she stammered.

  ‘Whores,’ Edwin said coldly. ‘Are you plotting against me?’

  Frances tried to fake a laugh. ‘Plotting?’ she said lightly. ‘Oh, Edwin, why in heaven’s name would I plot against you? Anyway, you know me. I couldn’t plot against you even if I wanted to – my mind isn’t half as quick as yours.’

  She saw Violet shoot her a quick questioning glance and hoped she would understand she was trying to calm things down.

  ‘You are right,’ Edwin snarled. ‘You are one of the most stupid women I’ve ever met.’

  Frances lowered her eyes, accepting his insults, but he wasn’t finished.

  ‘Stupid,’ he said. ‘Stupid enough to believe anything you’re told.’

  Frances forced a smile. ‘Edwin, you are the only person whose opinion I value.’

  Violet was looking terrified and angry in equal measure. A dangerous combination, Frances thought.

  ‘Don’t speak to her like that,’ Violet said.

  ‘Hush,’ Frances said frantically, too late. Edwin swung his gaze on to Violet.

  ‘I will talk to my wife as I please,’ he said. ‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’

  Violet went to speak and Frances grabbed her arm to stop her making things worse.

  ‘Go,’ she said to Violet. ‘Go home.’

  She watched as Violet tried to edge past Edwin and, quick as a flash, he reached out and grabbed her by her long hair.

  Violet cried out as Edwin wound her hair round his fist. He pulled her towards him roughly. Violet’s head jerked back until her back rested on Edwin’s arm.

  ‘What have you told her?’ he growled into her ear.

  ‘Nothing,’ Violet said. ‘I have told her nothing.’ She began to cry.

  Frances felt helpless. She longed to help Violet but she was so scared of Edwin that she was paralysed. ‘Edwin,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Let go of Miss Hargreaves’s hair.’

  Edwin pulled Violet again. This time both she and Frances cried out.

  ‘Let her go.’ Philips came striding down the path.

  ‘Oh look, Violet,’ Edwin sang. ‘Here’s your knight in shining armour, come to protect your honour. Bit late for that.’ But he let go of Violet’s hair.

  Frances, still shaking with fear, opened her arms and Violet ran to her. Her hairline was beaded with blood. Frances kissed her temple.

  ‘There, there,’ she cooed. ‘Philips will put this whole sorry mess to rights.’

  But she was not as sure as she sounded. Frances recognized the spark in Edwin’s eyes that told her he’d gone past the point where he cared about the consequences of his actions, and she feared for Philips.

  ‘It’s late,’ Philips said. ‘We’re all tired. Will you not go inside and we can talk about this in the morning?’

  Frances cradled Violet closer and winced. Edwin did not like being told what to do in the best of circumstances.

  Edwin looked at Philips with contempt. Frances found herself sizing them up. Philips was smaller than Edwin but younger and stronger. She thought he would have the edge in a fight.

  Edwin obviously had the same thought. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I am sorry. I have had a busy day and perhaps a glass of whisky too many. I apologize for my actions.’

  He held out his hand to Philips, but as the other man relaxed and held out his own, Edwin struck. He punched Philips, upwards, under his jaw. Philips’s head flew back, his eyes rolled, and his legs buckled. He slumped to the ground and a thin trickle of blood dripped from his nose.

  Violet screamed. The noise split the quiet night.

  Surely now someone will come, Frances thought in desperation. Surely someone will help us.

  ‘You’ve killed him,’ Violet wailed. ‘You have killed him.’

  Frances was suddenly filled with a calm resolve. She put her mouth to Violet’s ear and spoke in urgent tones. ‘Violet, listen to me. I can distract Edwin now. You must go – do you understand – you must go home and hide. If he knows your father is not there, Edwin could come to look for you. At first light, take the money and my diary and leave – as we planned. Send me word you are safe.’

  Violet had stopped screaming but she clung to Frances still.

  Edwin was standing over Philips but now he turned to the women.

  ‘Whores,’ he hissed again. ‘Why do you torment me?’

  ‘Go.’ Frances pushed Violet so hard, the younger woman lost her footing and fell. Breathing heavily, Frances pulled her to her feet then pushed her again. ‘Go,’ she repeated. ‘Go.’ She could see blood on Violet’s leg, but it did not look too bad.

  ‘Go on,’ Edwin said. ‘Run home to Daddy.’

  Violet staggered down the path and into the darkness. Frances braced herself as Edwin lurched towards her. She tried not to look at Philips’s body.

  ‘My darling wife,’ Edwin said. ‘Have you been sticking the knife further into my back? Spreading lies about me to the neighbours?’ Spittle frothed at the edges of his mouth.

  Frances looked into his eyes, which were filled with hatred, then she turned and fled back into the house. But Edwin was too fast. He gave chase as, gibbering with terror, Frances ran up the stairs. He grabbed her just as she reached the top, pulling her leg out from under her. She fell with a thump on to the landing and banged her head hard on the bannister.

  Dazed, she lay still for a second. Edwin loomed over her, blocking out the light from downstairs like an evil creature from a frightening fairy tale. Frances tried to pull herself along the landing but Edwin stamped on her leg.

  ‘Stay here, wife,’ he said. He began to unbuckle his belt. ‘You belong to me and it would serve you well to remember that.’

  Frances’s leg was throbbing, her head ached, and she couldn’t see out of her left eye. ‘I will die here,’ she thought, knowing with absolute clarity that no one would come to help her. Even if anyone heard noises, they would leave well alone, thinking that one should never interfere in business between a husband and his wife.

  Edwin still stood over her and suddenly Frances was filled with anger. She had been afraid for too long.

  As Edwin pushed his trousers down from his hips, Frances saw her chance. With her healthy leg she kicked out. It was a feeble attempt, all things considered. She had no strength left. Her foot did not even connect with Edwin. But her sudden movement took him by surprise. He stepped back – off the top step – and like an oak tree falling in the forest, he toppled backwards down the stairs.

  Frances heard him land on the tiled floor of the hall. And then the shadows on the edge of her vision crowded in.

  ‘I am so tired,’ she thought. She closed her eyes, and went to sleep.

  Chapter 58

  1855

  Violet

  I ran and ran. I picked up my skirt and ran through the front garden. The wind pulled my hat from my head and sent it spinning into the night, but I didn’t stop. I ran into the house and up the stairs. My leg was bleeding badly but it didn’t stop me, so frightened was I.

  The house was quiet and dark. Mabel had long since gone home and Philips … I gave a sob. I couldn’t think of him now.

  Exhausted, I crawled up the stairs to the attic room and lay for a second on the floor, catching my breath. A noise from outside mad
e me jump. If Edwin wanted to find me, he knew where I’d be. I had to hide.

  ‘Just in case you ever need to get away,’ I remembered Philips saying.

  Whimpering, I pulled myself to my feet, scuttled over to the corner of the room and slid behind the chaise.

  I pushed it backwards with my behind to give myself more room, then panting slightly I felt for the concealed panel. My hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t open it.

  ‘Come on, Violet,’ I said. Another noise downstairs made me gasp, just as I unlatched the panel. I thought briefly of Frances’s diary, hidden in the cupboard on the other side of the room, but I could hear voices now outside and knew I had to get away.

  I lay on my stomach and wriggled backwards through the space. I tried to pull the chaise back into the position it had been in but I couldn’t shift it. No matter, I would be out of here again at first light.

  I pushed myself backwards and dropped the panel back into place, hearing the latch catch with a click.

  The room was very dark. All I could hear was my own breathing. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I felt my way to the corner of the room and, exhausted, I curled up on the floor. I thought of Frances and hoped she was safe. Edwin had obviously been drinking; perhaps he had passed out before he could take his rage out on his wife.

  ‘It’s almost over,’ I told myself, speaking aloud in the darkness. ‘One more night and I will be free.’

  I must have slept because I woke, a few hours later, aching and thirsty, with the cold grey light of dawn creeping through the tiny window.

  My leg was hot and fiercely painful. I rolled down my stocking and examined it. It was an angry red around the wound and the skin was tight and shiny. I found I could not bear to roll my stocking back up, so I pulled it off, and the other, and threw them into the corner. Then I lay on my stomach and pushed the panel. Nothing happened.

  ‘Odd,’ I said aloud. I tried to remember how Philips had opened it from the inside but could not recall him doing it at all. Why hadn’t I paid more attention?

  ‘Think logically, Violet,’ I said. There was a catch somewhere on the side. I had to push the panel in to release it. So from here I would have to pull it to open it … but the door was flush against the wall. I tried to get my fingernails into the edges but they split and after a few attempts my fingers began to bleed.

  I started to sweat. I knew that to panic would not help but I could not help myself. Was I to stay here for ever? Only Philips and me even knew about the space. Father was not returning for a week, and Mabel would never think to look up here. I went to the tiny window. It was narrow – no wider than my face. I peered out. No one would see me up here. It was raining. I looked for a second at the water running down the outside of the glass.

  ‘I could break that,’ I thought. ‘And call for help. Perhaps someone walking on the cliffs would hear.’ I looked round. Philips had stacked all my art supplies neatly but none of them would do. Instead, I picked up my shoe, wrapped my discarded stocking round my hand to protect it, and hit the window. It was no use. The window was so narrow I could not break it.

  I had nothing to do but wait. I shrugged off my shawl and fashioned it into a pillow. Then I lay down in the corner, and closed my eyes.

  Chapter 59

  1855

  Frances

  ‘Mrs Forrest.’ The voice sounded a very long way away. ‘Mrs Forrest.’

  Frances opened her eyes, then shut them again as the light flooded in and made her wince.

  ‘Mrs Forrest.’ Someone took her hand. ‘Can you hear me? Squeeze my fingers.’

  Frances squeezed. Then she opened her eyes again. She was in her bed, at home. It was daytime, though the rain lashed against the windows. The person holding her hand was a doctor in a smart black suit. Behind him stood Agnes, a glass of water in her hand.

  ‘Well, hello,’ said the doctor. ‘We thought you were going to leave us.’

  Frances licked her dry lips and Agnes put the glass to her mouth. She drank eagerly.

  ‘Careful now,’ said Agnes. ‘Don’t make yourself sick.’

  Frances closed her eyes again.

  When she woke the doctor had gone, the rain had stopped, and the pain in her head had subsided. She lay still for a few minutes, checking her injuries. Her leg was bandaged and her eye swollen shut.

  The door opened and Agnes came in, carrying a pile of linen. ‘Oh you’re awake,’ she said, a rare smile on her face. She put the linen down and came to Frances’s side.

  ‘Sit,’ Frances croaked. ‘Please, tell me, what’s happened?’

  She meant since Edwin had returned and fallen, and killed Philips but Agnes misunderstood.

  ‘Oh do you not remember? I said that to the doctor. I said she’ll not remember, a nasty bump to her head like that.’

  Frances began to correct her but somewhere, deep in the swollen recesses of her aching head, she thought it would be best if everyone believed she had lost her memory.

  ‘There was an attack,’ Agnes said. ‘Someone broke in.’ Her dark eyes searched Frances’s face.

  ‘Someone broke in,’ Frances repeated.

  ‘Madam, your husband …’ Agnes paused. She took Frances’s hand. ‘Mr Forrest had returned from London. I’m afraid the attacker pushed him down the stairs. He’s dead, Madam.’

  Frances blinked at her. ‘Dead,’ she said. She could not take it in.

  Agnes pursed her lips. ‘William Philips, the gardener from next door, was also attacked,’ she said. ‘In your garden. He is alive, but only just. Doctor does not expect him to last the night.’

  Frances’s eyes filled with tears. ‘He is a good man,’ she said.

  ‘I have more bad news,’ Agnes said. ‘About Miss Hargreaves.’

  Frances braced herself.

  ‘She is missing. No one has seen her.’

  Frances was thrilled. Well done, Violet, she thought. Aloud, she said: ‘Goodness. Are they looking for her?’

  ‘You have been asleep for two days,’ Agnes said. ‘They have searched the village and the beach. They found her hat on the cliff edge – it is thought she might have drowned. But there is no sign of her. The doctor has sent word to her father.’

  ‘Poor Violet,’ Frances murmured, but inwardly she was thinking how brave her friend had been.

  There was a knock on the door, and the doctor put his head round. ‘Ah,’ he said with a smile. ‘You look much better.’

  He came in to the room and pulled up a chair next to Frances’s bed. ‘Has Agnes filled you in?’ he asked, his brow furrowed.

  Frances nodded.

  ‘I am so sorry about your husband, my dear.’

  Frances lowered her eyes.

  ‘Still, he will live on,’ the doctor continued.

  Alarmed, Frances looked at him. Agnes took her hand again.

  ‘She does not yet know,’ she said to the doctor.

  ‘Frances,’ he said. ‘I believe you are expecting a baby.’

  Frances’s head spun. ‘I thought … but I fell …’ she said.

  ‘Your baby is obviously a hardy chap,’ the doctor said. ‘Congratulations, my dear.’

  Frances was exhausted by all the news – good and bad. She put her hand to her belly and felt comforted.

  ‘I am tired,’ she said. ‘I must sleep.’

  Chapter 60

  1855

  Violet

  I was painting. It was my third day in the room. The first day I had slept most of the afternoon and woken, disorientated and confused, in darkness. I decided I had to keep track of passing time, so I took a paintbrush from the piles in the corner and painted a line on the wall to mark my first day. I was confident Father would find me when he returned but I was not sure exactly when that would be.

  Thoughtfully, I felt the end of the narrow brush. Could I lever open the panel using that? I got on to my knees and tried to stick the paintbrush in the edge of the panel, but narrow as it was, it was still too broad. I needed to file
it down somehow. I spent a while rubbing it on the rough edge of the bricks around the window, grazing my knuckles in the process. But though the brush now slotted in to the edge of the panel, as soon as I put pressure on it, it snapped.

  I sat on the floor with my back against the panel, exhausted. I had run out of ideas. I had tried every way I could think of to open the latch – and the window – and nothing worked. I would simply have to wait for Father to come. And that gave me another idea. I had my paints, and a large blank wall to paint on. I took a pencil from my supplies and began to sketch.

  That had been two days ago, and now I had covered almost half the wall with a giant depiction of myself as Mariana. I had to paint from memory because I had nothing to copy, but that was no problem.

  I had changed Mariana’s room into the grey cell I was now trapped in. Mariana’s large, leaded window was now a thin pane of glass, surrounded by bare brick, and instead of the sewing Mariana had thrown down, I added brushes and paint. Once more I planned to give my heroine my own rounded face and red hair.

  My days and nights fell into a rhythm, uncomfortable and strange as it was. I had shed most of my outer clothes and now used them as bedding, wearing only my petticoat. Each day I marked another line on the wall by the window, where I’d also painted a sun and a moon.

  I found I was no longer hungry, but I was weak and tired, and I could only paint for a short while before needing to rest. Increasingly, I spent most of the day sleeping, and after finding that shouting for help and banging the wall made me faint with exhaustion, I no longer did that either.

  Father will come, I thought. But I could hear nothing in the house. No sound to reassure me of his arrival.

  On the evening of my sixth day in the room, I finished my ‘Mariana’. It was enormous; I’d had to stand on the box holding my paints to reach the top. The colours glowed in the setting sun and I thought it was the best work I’d ever done, though I couldn’t be certain – I found it hard to think now, feeling my mind dance from thought to thought – some real, some fanciful. Sometimes I didn’t know if I was awake or asleep and dreaming.